


The 9:15 to Wales

by morganasmyths



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cuddle, First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, OOC, One Shot, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Protective John, Sad Sherlock, hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9851279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganasmyths/pseuds/morganasmyths
Summary: As John leaves to support his sister in rehab, confusion in the transport system and a terrorist attack leaves Sherlock believing that John is dead.John's return days later lets him find Sherlock a broken man, and he finally realises how much he means to him.(I have been told this is OOC, so please be aware that the feelings of Sherlock in this fic have been heightened.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya - this is v angsty (but I love it) and written as a request for a v lovely person and I loved the idea. If you want something written please don't be shy to request! I love to hear your ideas! Please let me know what you think.
> 
> A few TWs//  
> Drug use  
> Rehab  
> Terrorism  
> Mentions of:  
> Suicide  
> Character death
> 
> If I missed something please let me know. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3  
> M x

Sherlock’s brain has been working overtime for a week now. John was the only one who knew him well enough to notice. Lestrade commented once on Sherlock’s strange behaviour on a crime scene but wrote it off as tiredness and never questioned it again. However the thought had plagued John’s mind, and he knew his best friend wasn’t well.

It’s one thing having a brain. It’s another thing having Sherlock Holmes’s brain. And right now, John only had to look at Sherlock to notice how it was slowly killing him. Sherlock’s hands shook so violently as he reached to touch a red string linking to photos on the wall that the string caught under his finger and pinged away, edge fraying and hanging limply. 

Sherlock inhaled sharply, turning his head ever so slightly to the left so see if John had seen what had happened.

He had.

Swallowing, Sherlock returned his focus to the wall, decidedly ignoring the string and glaring at the problem. It was a tough one; there were four different bodies with no apparent link and the possibility that there may be no link. But there had to be a link – there was always a link, even a subconscious one. It was driving him crazy. His breathing was shallow and his eyes darted furiously over every picture, skimming them, rippling across the information. His head hurt.

Suddenly John’s phone rang loudly and Sherlock jumped out his skin. John looked at Sherlock worriedly and Sherlock caught his eye. They stopped for a moment, just staring at each other, before John decided that he had better answer this phone call.

“Hello?” he spoke as he opened the call, retreating from the living room to his bedroom. The anonymous caller turned out to be a therapist calling from somewhere on the other side of town.

“My name is Leah,” she said. “Or Dr Lowe as you might find me online. I’m a therapist and psychologist and was working with Harriet through weekly sessions. May I ask your relationship to her? You should know that you were saved as her emergency contact in both her phone and on her legal documents.”

“I’m John Watson, I’m her brother,” he said, a hint of concern edging at his voice. “What’s happened?”

“I received a set of keys to her flat,” Leah continued. “It’s standard protocol for the job unless the patient objects but Harriet didn’t. I walked into her flat this morning to discover she had overdosed on sleeping pills.”

John’s breath caught in his throat and he felt his stomach drop.

“Don’t be alarmed Mr Watson, everything’s alright,” Leah said softly. “It turns out she hadn’t slept during any of the night and had only decided to take them this morning, and so when I got there they had only been administered very recently. She was taken immediately by ambulance and she’s okay now. She’s being admitted from hospital tomorrow and taken to a rehabilitation centre in Wales. At you are Harriet’s first line of emergency contact, I am required to request your presence during her first few days in the centre. Would that possible?”

John took a few moments to breathe after she explained everything before answering. Harriet was in trouble and she needed him. His mind suddenly flew to Sherlock, shaking and unwell. Sherlock needed him too. He made a split-second decision.

“Yes, yes of course that would be entirely possible. It’s only for a few days, you said?” he confirmed.

“Yes only two three away, I understand if you’re needed where you are,” Leah replied. “It’s just better for the patients to settle in with someone they know personally. Either the team or I will meet you at the station in Wales tomorrow.”

“Yes, thank you,” John said. “I’ll be there.” Leah hung up. 

He stood still for a moment, trying to catch his breath and maintain his composure. His sister had overdosed – perhaps not intentionally but it still didn’t take away the shock of it all, the realisation that he could have lost her. They were right to be taking her to a rehab centre, she needed the help. John didn’t know how many more heart-attacks from Harry he could take.

Then there was Sherlock. It was only for a few days, he had confirmed that himself. He could ask Mycroft to keep an eye on him, and Mrs Hudson was only downstairs. She could stay with him for a few hours if he looked unstable. Yes, that would work. It was only a few days. 

Having collected himself, he went back downstairs to explain to Sherlock what had happened. He found Sherlock curled up in his chair, a cushion clutched to his chest, his eyes glazed over with thought. John’s heart clenched at the sight. All he wanted was to gather Sherlock up in his arms and kiss his curls and help him through whatever he was suffering, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know where the boundaries lay with Sherlock, he never really had. Since that first night in Angelo’s, it had become apparent that there was chemistry between them, but the lines between friendship and something more had always been slightly blurred and... Flexible to say the least.

John swallowed and entered the room.

“I have to go away for a few days.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to John’s. His heart dropped to his stomach. All Sherlock wanted was John. Please don’t leave me, he thought. I just want you here.

“Harry overdosed and I need to help her settle into a rehabilitation centre,” John continued, trying to pretend like he hadn’t seen Sherlock’s lip quiver. He glanced back at his face again but it was completely neutral. He must have imagined it.

Harry was John’s family. There was no way he was going to stay here babysitting Sherlock when he had to take care of Harry. That was the conclusion Sherlock had come to. Who knew how long John would be gone once he realised how much better off he was without Sherlock. Sherlock swallowed down his fears and attempted to speak like it was a normal day.

“Where are you g-going?”

They both ignored the fact that Sherlock’s voice cracked, but John couldn’t look at him in the face. Instead he stared at the wall.

“I don’t know. I assume they’ll tell me on the way.”

There was silence. There was nothing to say – the silence said it all.

John mumbled something about going to pack and Sherlock simply curled further into his chair. He was going to be alone for who knows how long. Sherlock couldn’t bear it.

He lay on his back that night thinking over what would happen if John did leave. What would he do with himself? John had always been the thing that kept him together. He couldn’t even remember himself before John – it was just a mess of drugs and crime highs, anything he could scrape to make him feel alive. But then it was John, and from then on it had only been John. Sherlock would never let anyone know how much he depended upon that man. John was everything to him.

The next day he shuffled awkwardly by the door as John brought his case downstairs.

“I’m on the 9:15 from Waterloo to Wales and she’s meeting me at the station in Wales,” he said, even though he’d already said that.

“There are only minor delays, it should come in about five minutes late,” Sherlock replied.

“Of course it would, knowing our train service I’d be surprised if a train ever came in on time,” John joked. Sherlock laughed and John looked at him with a wide, genuine smile. Sherlock’s heart twisted and his breath faltered. It was too much. He couldn’t lose this man.

“You’re coming back?” he blurted. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. John froze.

“Of course,” he said, staring back at Sherlock who refused to look at him. “Sherlock...” he whispered but Sherlock interrupted him.

“Have a safe journey,” he said quickly. “Your taxi’s outside.” 

John glanced out the door where his taxi was indeed waiting but returned his gaze to Sherlock. He hadn’t realised quite how much Sherlock needed him and now felt horrible about leaving. But Harry needed his help and he’d already said yes and with this knowledge he tore him gaze from Sherlock, giving one last weak smile.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” he said. He had loaded his things into the car and was about to get in when he turned back and saw Sherlock standing in the door. John knew he’d caught him off-guard by looking at him now because the man had never looked so broken. His eyes held so much pain and it was unbearable. John strode up to him, wrapping his arms around him slim frame and Sherlock melted into the hug, pressing his face into John’s neck. John swallowed, keeping his strong arms securely around Sherlock.

“Just a few days,” he whispered before letting go and getting into the taxi. He didn’t dare look back to 221B, fearing he’d change his mind and cancel this trip if he did. 

He reached Waterloo at quarter to nine, giving him plenty of time to buy his ticket and make it to the right platform. He went to the ticket machines in the middle but not before scanning the electric billboards to see if there had been any major changes.

There had been – the 9:15 had been delayed by an entire two hours. The journey to Wales only took four hours by train, and Harry needed him as soon as possible. 

He decided the best course of action would be to take a taxi the whole way there. There were services that did that across the UK, and he was bloody grateful for them right now. He hired one which was with him within the half-hour, despite his late calling, and despite the fact it cost an arm and a leg it was worth it as it would get him there just after the train originally would have. 

They had barely been going for twenty minutes out of London before the signal on his phone went completely. It didn’t look like it was going to pick up any time soon, judging by the lack of towns on the map the driver was following. John settled into his seat and just listened to some music to pass the time.

Eventually he reached the station and took some money out at a cash machine there to pay the driver. There was even less hope of signal here so he turned his phone off to save the battery and looked around to see if he could find a member of the rehab centre. He needn’t have bothered – they found him within a few minutes. Leah was with them, having driven down with Harry last night.

They drove him to the centre where he immediately went to see Harry. She had been given her own room complete with a fluffy rug on the floor, a dark-wood desk by the large window and a double bed in the centre.

She was curled up in the centre of her bed, attempting sleep. Upon John’s arrival she leapt out of bed and threw her arms around him.

“John I-“

“Don’t, Harry,” he croaked. “I thought you’d died.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Just... Stay here. Let them help you.”

Harry nodded into his shoulder before they pulled apart.

“Let’s get some lunch,” John offered and she agreed, leading him down the hallway to where the cafeteria was, despite the fact that she was still in her pyjamas. John turned on his phone only to discover that there was absolutely no Wi-Fi or signal here at all, not even the televisions had satellite images: they were only used for playing movies. John supposed that was wise in a way, as it prevented patients from seeing harmful images and gave them access to films that were deemed appropriate for the state of their mental health.

“You’re staying in the room next to mine,” Harry explained over their lunch. “They’ve arranged it really well.”

“They have,” John agreed, glancing around the room. It wasn’t hospital-like or intimidating at all, it was homely with thick wooden beams and glass-panelled windows. You could constantly see the countryside no matter where you were in the building. It was lovely. His mind flickered once again to Sherlock. No, John would not think about him too much here. He was sure he was fine, and at home, solving the case like he has done so well so many times previously. He would be fine.

Earlier that day -

Sherlock watched the taxi with John inside roll away with a heaviness in his chest. It was only a few days until John came back, he could live for a few days. For God’s sake, he needed to stop being so pathetic, he knew he did, but that didn’t change how much he missed John already. 

He decided that today would be another day when he didn’t get dressed at all. He got a call from Lestrade with some more details about the case and soon was able to get a little farther into what might have happened. He scribbled down his findings but soon reached another dead end. He needed more data for this case: that was the infuriating part.

At noon he flopped down in his chair, wondering how on earth it was possible to feel this bored and lonely. In true desperation for entertainment he turned on the television and his blood ran cold.

“Tragedy as the 9:15 train from London Waterloo to Wales was targeted this morning as the subject of the worst terrorist attack in the past five years. The train carriages exploded simultaneously, with no prior warning and leaving no survivors. The live helicopter footage shows the scene of the tragic attack. The deceased are yet to be named...”

Sherlock’s heart drummed hard against his chest and his breathing stopped altogether. Tears welled up in his eyes and he didn’t have the strength to stop them. All he could think was: John. His hands shook violently and he stumbled over himself as he leapt up and grabbed his phone, desperately trying to call John’s number but it went straight off – not even to voicemail. Tears began to break out as he screamed at the phone.

“PICK UP! PICK UP GOD DAMMIT JOHN PLEASE! PLEASE!” his voice was quickly turning hoarse but he didn’t care. John could be dead. A fresh wave of tears flooded over him as the realisation hit him. He needed John to be okay. He needed John to be alive. He needed to know if- Mycroft.

Without even putting on shoes, Sherlock sprinted out of the flat and through the London streets. He couldn’t be bothered to stop for a cab and he didn’t care how much his feet hurt or his lungs screamed. Mycroft’s office was only a ten minute drive across London, and with the traffic at a standstill Sherlock could not waste that time.

He arrived at his office and burst through the doors but Mycroft was already ahead of him. He had teams surveying the wrecks and the security footage to see if they could find any evidence of John not being on that train but the footage had been tampered with – cut by the terrorists at all stations nationally.

“Where is he, Mycroft?” Sherlock sobbed.

“Sherlock, I am trying-“

“WHERE IS HE?” he screeched, his eyes red raw and stinging furiously with tears.

“Sir...” Both the brothers’ eyes looked up sharply to the man who had spoken. He gasped for a second for the words but couldn’t find them and simply shook his head. Sherlock’s heart shattered.

“Mycroft, find him,” he ordered.

“Sherlock-“

“FIND HIM!”

“I can’t-“

“I don’t care what you can and can’t do – you have the whole British government at your fingertips so USE IT!” Sherlock screamed, grief overcoming him completely as rage. There was so much going on, so much he couldn’t handle, all he could do was scream. 

“FIND HIM MYCROFT, I NEED HIM. HE CAN’T BE DEAD – HE C-CAN’T, I CAN’T L-LOSE HIM J-JOHN-“

Sherlock began choking on his words as his tears strangled him and his grief overcame him completely. He sank to the floor, his hands clawing at his hair and down his face until he was kneeling, shoulders slumped, his face in his hands, sobbing with all his heart and crying out for John. 

Mycroft stood slowly and knelt before his brother. He wanted to help, but all he could do was stand and watch his brother fall apart in front of him.

-

Sherlock returned to 221B that evening in silence. In less than a day his whole life had shattered and he felt empty. 

He climbed the stairs slowly, trying to push all memory of John out of his mind but as soon as he reached the living room he couldn't hold back the tears anymore. They flooded through him and stung his eyes to the point where he couldn't see. He screamed and screamed and threw items across the room, smashed crockery, tore down his suspect map.

It all meant nothing without John.

Alone he sank to the floor, sobbing into his hands, no strength to get up.

Mycroft's team couldn't find John. The security cameras had been wiped for twenty four hours before the attack, meaning that there was no footage of John at all. There was no evidence that he wasn't on that train. He had no reason not to be - it had only been delayed by five minutes. 

Sherlock's tears ceased enough for him to make out some small round objects on the floor.

Pills.

They'd obviously fallen when he had been chucking things around the room. His mind wandered to a very dark place. What was he without John? He slapped himself out of that mindset.

But he couldn't stop thinking about it, how he'd rather be with John no matter where that was. He swallowed and reached a shaky hand for them when there was a rap on the door. He froze. Mrs Hudson let them in.

Lestrade charged into the room and slapped Sherlock's hand away. He burst into tears again. 

"Sherlock..." Lestrade couldn't think to say anything else. There was nothing he could console Sherlock with. The man was devastated. 

Lestrade had long since know that Sherlock was deeply in love with John, and now he rested a solemn hand on his shoulder as he sobbed and howled for the love of his life that would never return. 

After even just a few minutes of hearing Sherlock cry, Lestrade couldn't bear it anymore and made him a cup of tea. He didn't doubt that the grief Sherlock felt was incomparable. John had been his whole world, and he was taken from him in a split-second. 

He handed Sherlock the tea and made him some dinner. He knew he wouldn't eat but he couldn't leave him like this. He had to know that Sherlock had access to nutritious food. 

After a short while he was forced to go by work. He hugged Sherlock briefly, who had stopped crying out loud and now silent tears ceaselessly rolled down his cheeks. Lestrade's throat tightened at the sight as he left quickly. 

Sherlock needed time, but he didn't know how dangerous that could be. 

-

After Lestrade left, Sherlock felt even worse. Lestrade had reminded him how much people needed him. He couldn't kill himself. He couldn't do that to others - it would be inexplicably selfish to force a situation on others where both John and himself had gone in the same day. 

He choked up again when the reality that John was dead came to mind. He couldn't say it out loud - he couldn't say anything out loud. It felt like a sin to think it. 

He was desperate. He needed to get out of this grief or it would kill him. He felt as though his heart had snapped in two, and if he wasn't careful it very well might. Prolonged grief puts strain on the heart-strings and they can snap, hence death via a broken heart. 

But although his heart may be eternally broken, he wasn't allowed to die. He had to be there for other people. He couldn't be so selfish. But if he was going to live, he needed a relief. 

It didn't take long to prepare the cocaine, having done it so many times before. He lined up the syringe with his vein and pressed sharply. It had been a generous dosage - he needed to be fully out. 

He lay on the floor, waiting for the drugs to take effect, and John's smiling face flashed across his memories, sparking a fresh wave of tears.

Three days later -

Mycroft Holmes lifted his head out of his hands at the sound of his computer beeping. He glanced up at the screen with hooded eyes that widened as soon as they saw the man getting out of the cab on Baker Street. 

"Bugger me," he breathed. "We've found him."

-

John ascended the staircase, eyes on his phone and luggage in his other hand. He had had billions of missed calls since he had left - most of which were from Sherlock. Had something happened in the case?

He kicked open the door to the living room and opened his mouth to say something but his jaw fell completely slack and the breath caught in his throat. The bags and phone slipped from his hands and John stepped into the room and fell to his knees in front of the unmoving body of Sherlock Holmes. 

"Sherlock!" He yelled, desperately shaking the man. Sherlock jerked and his hands and lips quivered. Oh thank the lord, he was alive. John pulled him onto his lap, scattering the drugs and equipment everywhere, trying to pretend that he couldn't tell how much Sherlock had been taking. The high had long since worn off and Sherlock was utterly broken. 

He held Sherlock to his chest with his left arm and ran his right hand across his forehead and through his greasy curls. He wanted those eyes to open more than anything in the world as his hand slipped down the side of his face to cup his cheeks and hot tears spilled from John's eyes.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, a glassy glaze across them that eventually dissipated into the clear green irises he knew so well. John's face broke out into a grin for joy and Sherlock's eyes widened as he desperately began grappling for John.

"J-John -" he began, choked but John hushed him as he became overcome by tears and buried himself into John. 

"Shh, Sherlock I'm here, I'm here," he soothed, his strong arms enfolding Sherlock and clutching him close, protecting him. Sherlock breathed heavily into John's chest, feeling little but his strong arms holding his body to him and his beating heart against his ear. Occasionally a sob slipped out but he quickly swallowed. He had to hold himself together or he would fall apart forever. 

John so badly wanted to rest his forehead on Sherlock's or cup his cheek again, but Sherlock was alive and conscious and John couldn't risk ever losing him like he thought he had just then. Even just the sight of the man he loved with all his heart on the floor had made his stomach drop like never before. 

"J-John," Sherlock stuttered. John held him closer. "I- I thought I'd lost you. I thought you- you were d-dead-" 

With these words a fresh round of silent tears poured from Sherlock's eyes and John's heart broke. Sherlock had thought he was dead for multiple days? His eyes flickered to the television, showing images of the horrific terrorist attack and his stomach dropped. He suddenly saw what Sherlock had done, how intensely he had grieved and how broken the man had become. His own tears began to freely fall as he truly saw how much he meant to Sherlock. 

Damn the boundaries, he thought and pulled Sherlock up, closer to his face and buried his face in Sherlock's neck. They cried into each other, tears saying what words couldn't until John couldn't take it anymore. He tilted Sherlock's head up and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. The kiss was mixed with tears and they half cried their way through it but Sherlock kissed back so desperately that John didn't stop in the least. 

Eventually they broke apart and Johm gazed adoringly at Sherlock. His eyes were closed and streaming with tears. John leaned forward to kiss them away but that made Sherlock cry even harder. It suddenly hit John that Sherlock may not have eaten or slept in three days. He needed rest. 

John moved to slide one arm under Sherlock's legs and slowly stood, protectively holding Sherlock's weak body to his chest. He was deathly quiet. He had definitely lost weight. He shouldn't be this light. John carried him to his bedroom, face snuggled in his curls and Sherlock still gripping his shirt for dear life. 

He settled Sherlock into the sheets and sprinted upstairs to quickly get changed. There was no way he was sleeping in his own bedroom tonight. He came downstairs and immediately slipped into bed next to Sherlock and pulled him close. 

Sherlock was shaking and a complete mess. The man was broken. John's apparent death had shattered him to the core and now he was pieces of the former great detective he once had been. Somehow Sherlock was holding it together, hardly making a sound.

John's strong, protective arms held him together. He wouldn't fall apart as long as he was here, with John. He tried to voice this but ended up spluttering on his own words, causing John to soothe him gentle.

"Shh Sherlock shh, sleep now, it's okay I'm here. I've got you. I understand. I'm holding you together and I am not ever letting go."

And in that moment Sherlock had never felt safer or more stable in his life. John was holding him together, never leaving, and Sherlock knew he could let himself go. 

He sobbed hysterically into John, screaming and cursing and crying and allowing everything to flood out because he needed to let himself go. He let himself be completely vulnerable but had never felt more safe than when John was holding him together while he falls apart. 

John just pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around his tighter and entangling their legs until they both drifted into sleep, Sherlock wrapped up in John's warm embrace, his constant presence serving as a reminder that he was always going to be there for him. 

-

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. They were red raw and ached from crying and he couldn't quite see out of them. When they finally focused, he realised that he was staring right into John's eyes, completely wrapped up in his embrace. He snuggled closer, never wanting to leave, delighting in the realisation that John wasn't dead. 

"Morning Sherlock," John breathed. "I'll go make some tea." 

He began to move away from the cuddle but Sherlock panicked and dragged him back. He complied easily. Without hesitating a second Sherlock leaned up and kissed John with everything he had. He couldn't let him go another second without knowing just how loved he was. 

John immediately kissed back and gathered Sherlock up in his arms again, pulling both his body and his mouth closer as one hand knotted itself into Sherlock's curls. John parted their lips and slid his tongue against Sherlock's, moving their lips together passionately. 

He spent the rest of the day in John's arms, relaxing in the thought that he wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life here in John's arms. 

He felt whole and warm in the knowledge that John wasn't leaving. The said man turned to kiss Sherlock who smiled into the kiss. John was never leaving again.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think - I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> M x


End file.
